Thursday, November 15, 2012
Makes my Day
I can't help it, but these guys have made my day: Obama vs Romney and Hitler vs Vader. I know some of these are just plain offensive...but I can't stop laughing. There are a few that fall short of funny, but most are definitely worth watching. If they weren't so vulgar, I'd throw these as examples at students and tell them to come up with something similar. These are the height of creativity...and brains. They aren't mindless rap videos, you actually need to know something about each character to get references. When Hitler says "Come in to my shower," my jaw dropped. The Obama vs. Romney one is probably my favorite. They don't favor one politician or the other, and the surprise cameo is hilarious yet still manages to send a message. My hubby loves Dr. Seuss vs Shakespeare. I hope people can see past how offensive they can be and just realize how creative and (surprisingly) intelligent they are at times.
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
PMS Needs to Come with an Excessively Happy Mode
Earlier today, I wished that anger motivated me to write, because I'd be half done with my research paper by now. I came home in tears, my literary theory class making me believe, more than ever, that this research paper is a farce. I don't know what I'm doing, or how I'm going to do it. I'm tired of being told that literary theory is the end all to understanding literature. It was to my great surprise when I turned, with a furrowed brow and a trembling lip, to my literary theory reading for the night. There were two articles at the back of the book "The Tempest" by Shakespeare, one by Stephen Greenblat, and one by George Will. The former argued for the use of literary theory, and the latter argued against. I don't think I've ever been so entertained. Their scathing retorts and pointing fingers made me laugh, though it was obvious neither were ever going to meet as friends. Their anger at the cause at hand helped me relax. In fact, I'll be trying to incorporate quotes from both men in my paper.
Will made the point that approaching literature from a political point of view makes literature primarily interesting as "a mere index of who had power and whom the powerful victimized." He continues with, "by 'deconstructing,' or politically decoding, or otherwise attacking the meaning of literary works, critics strip literature from its authority. Criticism displaces literature and critics displace authors as bestowers of meaning." He believes that the knowledge of literature and history is faltering, which results in a collective amnesia and deculturation. He believes that political goal of the victim revolution is social disintegration, something sweeping university campuses.
Greenblat countered rather scathingly, but states overall that it is impossible to separate "The Tempest" from imperialism. He refers to the history of the 1600's in which Shakespeare wrote the play--colonialism was a given. Greenblate argues that art is not cement (Will says a shared and stable culture is 'the nation's social cement'), "it is mobile, complex, elusive, disturbing. . .a community is founded on. . . the play of language, the scholarly honesty." He believes it is all but impossible to understand works of Shakespeare (and literature in general) without struggling with "the dark energies upon which Shakespeare's art so powerfully draws."
They both make very valid points, but I will say it is hard for me to take some literary theory seriously. Will hits the head on the nail by poking fun at feminist critics and Melville's story "Moby Dick"--"Melville's white whale? Probably a penis. Grab a harpoon!" I've read way too many critiques over the semester that seem to be stretching to prove a point. I don't see anything wrong with theorizing Lovecraft's rough childhood may have inspired "The Outsider," which ends with a beast realizing he is the thing people have been running, screaming, from. His mother reportedly used to call him 'hideous' so often that he may have believed her. Things like that stick with a person. Of course, as my husband argued, just because you are a writer who loves creating horror fiction (in Lovecraft's case, the man to change the course of horror fiction writing forever), does not mean you had a rough childhood, or that it is the end-all inspiration for the writing.
Do I think there is any validity what-so-ever in Margot Norris's feminist critique on "The Dead" by James Joyce? No. Her argument was based solely on the feminist voice that 'wasn't being presented.' Norris states, "Joyce performs in 'The Dead' not only a critique of patriarchy, but a critique of his own art as contributing to the oppression and silencing of women. 'The Dead' must therefore be read not as one text but as two texts: a 'loud' or audible male narration challenged or disrupted by a 'silent' or discounted female countertext that does not, in the end, succeed in making itself heard." I can see where the feminist critic could look at Joyce's background and his history of writing concerning women, but honestly. . . maybe Joyce didn't include a whispering woman in Gabe's mind simply because it wasn't the point of the story. The only commentary on women I could find within "The Dead" was Gabe's treatment of the women in his own life. Unable to socialize well with people or in situations he could not evaluate as he did art, he confined his wife and other female characters in a box, as things to be studied. A fem. critic could go on about that all day. Norris lost me when she failed to realize that Joyce was not writing to express distaste for the female sex--but to explore the bursting reality Gabe is subjected to, and whether or not his character will change for it. There is so much meaning in this story, to be sure. But a commentary on Joyce's feelings toward women via the 'silent female narrator'. . . I'm sorry, but it is going to take a lot more argument to convince me there's any validity in Norris's paper.
I'll end this rant on a humorous note:
Will made the point that approaching literature from a political point of view makes literature primarily interesting as "a mere index of who had power and whom the powerful victimized." He continues with, "by 'deconstructing,' or politically decoding, or otherwise attacking the meaning of literary works, critics strip literature from its authority. Criticism displaces literature and critics displace authors as bestowers of meaning." He believes that the knowledge of literature and history is faltering, which results in a collective amnesia and deculturation. He believes that political goal of the victim revolution is social disintegration, something sweeping university campuses.
Greenblat countered rather scathingly, but states overall that it is impossible to separate "The Tempest" from imperialism. He refers to the history of the 1600's in which Shakespeare wrote the play--colonialism was a given. Greenblate argues that art is not cement (Will says a shared and stable culture is 'the nation's social cement'), "it is mobile, complex, elusive, disturbing. . .a community is founded on. . . the play of language, the scholarly honesty." He believes it is all but impossible to understand works of Shakespeare (and literature in general) without struggling with "the dark energies upon which Shakespeare's art so powerfully draws."
They both make very valid points, but I will say it is hard for me to take some literary theory seriously. Will hits the head on the nail by poking fun at feminist critics and Melville's story "Moby Dick"--"Melville's white whale? Probably a penis. Grab a harpoon!" I've read way too many critiques over the semester that seem to be stretching to prove a point. I don't see anything wrong with theorizing Lovecraft's rough childhood may have inspired "The Outsider," which ends with a beast realizing he is the thing people have been running, screaming, from. His mother reportedly used to call him 'hideous' so often that he may have believed her. Things like that stick with a person. Of course, as my husband argued, just because you are a writer who loves creating horror fiction (in Lovecraft's case, the man to change the course of horror fiction writing forever), does not mean you had a rough childhood, or that it is the end-all inspiration for the writing.
Do I think there is any validity what-so-ever in Margot Norris's feminist critique on "The Dead" by James Joyce? No. Her argument was based solely on the feminist voice that 'wasn't being presented.' Norris states, "Joyce performs in 'The Dead' not only a critique of patriarchy, but a critique of his own art as contributing to the oppression and silencing of women. 'The Dead' must therefore be read not as one text but as two texts: a 'loud' or audible male narration challenged or disrupted by a 'silent' or discounted female countertext that does not, in the end, succeed in making itself heard." I can see where the feminist critic could look at Joyce's background and his history of writing concerning women, but honestly. . . maybe Joyce didn't include a whispering woman in Gabe's mind simply because it wasn't the point of the story. The only commentary on women I could find within "The Dead" was Gabe's treatment of the women in his own life. Unable to socialize well with people or in situations he could not evaluate as he did art, he confined his wife and other female characters in a box, as things to be studied. A fem. critic could go on about that all day. Norris lost me when she failed to realize that Joyce was not writing to express distaste for the female sex--but to explore the bursting reality Gabe is subjected to, and whether or not his character will change for it. There is so much meaning in this story, to be sure. But a commentary on Joyce's feelings toward women via the 'silent female narrator'. . . I'm sorry, but it is going to take a lot more argument to convince me there's any validity in Norris's paper.
I'll end this rant on a humorous note:
Thursday, November 1, 2012
Halloween and Other Stuff
Well, I've just passed the last legal-landmark of age: turning 21. I can now accompany my husband to buy wine instead of waiting in the car. On Tuesday, I languished in a day devoted to me--and being able to spend it all with my husband. Granted, I had to attend class, but I did get work off. We used that time to go to Longhorn Steakhouse and eat (on my end) lobster and crab soup with bacon mac n' cheese. Not having the ingredients for my dad's bacon mushroom mac n cheese (which I usually request for my birthday), we went to the only place we knew had the closest thing. John ate french onion soup (which was surprisingly tasty--after an unfortunate incident with bad french onion soup, it took a lot of bravery for me to try it again) and an amazing BBQ sandwich. After, we went and bought an ice cream cake from Publix (also tasty). I received some great presents from my parents in the mail, and my hubby made a dent in my amazon wishlist by getting me "Tales of Beedle the Bard" and "The Casual Vacancy" by J.K. Rowling.
I spent the day thinking about how much has changed in a year and a half. For the first time in my life, I realized that I didn't care if I was given a gift ever again, because I was given the best gift of all on May 7th of 2011. I was introduced to the man of my dreams. If ever there was a reason to believe in a higher power, John is my reason. Of the billions that inhabit the Earth, I managed to bump into my soul mate at a party I wasn't planning on going to in the first place. Home from school, all I wanted to do was hang out with my dad before he went to his check up appointment at Mayo Clinic. I was still having a hard time being away from home knowing my dad was living with cancer. It was my best friend who convinced me to go to her friend's birthday party to relax and celebrate. When I arrived I realized I didn't know anyone there but Bill, a man I had met just days before. My best friend not there yet, I wanted to turn around and go home. Maybe it was the allure of the campfire, or the sign of recognition on Bill's face, but I walked over and sat in the only spot available--directly next to my future husband.
I think of that moment often; the animated hand gestures as he spoke, his ability to make me laugh despite my sullen mood, his eloquent words, the firelight glinting with the mischief in his warm eyes. Before I knew it, it was 3AM the next day, only a few people lingering around the dying fire. I had just enough time to get home and wish my dad luck before he left for Rochester, and I couldn't bring myself to miss that opportunity. I left that party intrigued by John, hoping that we would bump into each other again soon.
I'm not saying our lives have been perfect--love can be a struggle some times. But 100% of the time, I'd rather be arguing with John than anywhere else I thought I'd be at this time two years ago. All I want for birthdays, Christmases, Easters, Thanksgivings, Valentine Days, and any other holiday is to spend time with my husband.
****
Yesterday was Halloween, and for the first time in my life, I got to hand out candy to trick or treaters. Since I can remember, my family has lived out in the country...not a very likely option for kids to go knocking on doors. When I was a kid, my dad would take my brother and I to the Saint Hilaire Lions Club. They put on a costume contest and a hayride for the kids in the area. I loved riding around the neighborhoods, seeing the homes decked out in flashing lights. I was excited all day--for some reason, all I've ever wanted to do was hand someone some candy on my favorite holiday of the year. When the knock came at the door, I pushed homework from my lap and raced to the door. I flung it open and beheld...kids wearing winter jackets. Perhaps they had costumes on underneath, but they were dressed like I used to be this time in Minnesota. It was only 55 degrees in Savannah. My first year without snow, the first year I look forward to kids wearing costumes, and the natives are bundled up like there's frost on the ground. One look at the candy, and eyes popped wide.
"How much can we take?" One boy asked, hopping on his feet. Murmurs of 'trick or treat' flew across the others, the moms standing with a watchful eye on the steps. I paused, trying to remember how much I got when I went around to homes in Saint Hilaire. Apparently, my answer came too slowly. Before I could open my mouth, hands dove into the plastic bowl I carried, children dashing ahead of parents with prizes being stuffed into coat pockets. I blinked, looking at the almost empty bowl before going back inside. Though one group of kids near cleared us out, I still couldn't help but feeling happy. Giving candy is definitely better than taking it!
I spent the day thinking about how much has changed in a year and a half. For the first time in my life, I realized that I didn't care if I was given a gift ever again, because I was given the best gift of all on May 7th of 2011. I was introduced to the man of my dreams. If ever there was a reason to believe in a higher power, John is my reason. Of the billions that inhabit the Earth, I managed to bump into my soul mate at a party I wasn't planning on going to in the first place. Home from school, all I wanted to do was hang out with my dad before he went to his check up appointment at Mayo Clinic. I was still having a hard time being away from home knowing my dad was living with cancer. It was my best friend who convinced me to go to her friend's birthday party to relax and celebrate. When I arrived I realized I didn't know anyone there but Bill, a man I had met just days before. My best friend not there yet, I wanted to turn around and go home. Maybe it was the allure of the campfire, or the sign of recognition on Bill's face, but I walked over and sat in the only spot available--directly next to my future husband.
I think of that moment often; the animated hand gestures as he spoke, his ability to make me laugh despite my sullen mood, his eloquent words, the firelight glinting with the mischief in his warm eyes. Before I knew it, it was 3AM the next day, only a few people lingering around the dying fire. I had just enough time to get home and wish my dad luck before he left for Rochester, and I couldn't bring myself to miss that opportunity. I left that party intrigued by John, hoping that we would bump into each other again soon.
I'm not saying our lives have been perfect--love can be a struggle some times. But 100% of the time, I'd rather be arguing with John than anywhere else I thought I'd be at this time two years ago. All I want for birthdays, Christmases, Easters, Thanksgivings, Valentine Days, and any other holiday is to spend time with my husband.
****
Yesterday was Halloween, and for the first time in my life, I got to hand out candy to trick or treaters. Since I can remember, my family has lived out in the country...not a very likely option for kids to go knocking on doors. When I was a kid, my dad would take my brother and I to the Saint Hilaire Lions Club. They put on a costume contest and a hayride for the kids in the area. I loved riding around the neighborhoods, seeing the homes decked out in flashing lights. I was excited all day--for some reason, all I've ever wanted to do was hand someone some candy on my favorite holiday of the year. When the knock came at the door, I pushed homework from my lap and raced to the door. I flung it open and beheld...kids wearing winter jackets. Perhaps they had costumes on underneath, but they were dressed like I used to be this time in Minnesota. It was only 55 degrees in Savannah. My first year without snow, the first year I look forward to kids wearing costumes, and the natives are bundled up like there's frost on the ground. One look at the candy, and eyes popped wide.
"How much can we take?" One boy asked, hopping on his feet. Murmurs of 'trick or treat' flew across the others, the moms standing with a watchful eye on the steps. I paused, trying to remember how much I got when I went around to homes in Saint Hilaire. Apparently, my answer came too slowly. Before I could open my mouth, hands dove into the plastic bowl I carried, children dashing ahead of parents with prizes being stuffed into coat pockets. I blinked, looking at the almost empty bowl before going back inside. Though one group of kids near cleared us out, I still couldn't help but feeling happy. Giving candy is definitely better than taking it!
Fear of a Thing Inspires
Fear is an excellent driving force. When I first began college in 2010, I was afraid of failing classes. I studied my ass off to ensure that didn't happen. So it didn't. When I was given the opportunity to interview for the Video Production position at Armstrong, I was terrified that I would get the job, and that I wouldn't. I'd never gone out for a job I really wanted before. If I did get the job, what if I couldn't do it? So I researched, I practiced interviewing...and I got the job. And I'm doing pretty damn well for never touching a video camera before, and with minimal experience with editing film.
But when I got the hang of classes at Armstrong, I stopped caring if I didn't get all A's. Honestly, I just stopped caring about school. There is not one class right now in which I participate, in which I put forth all the effort necessary to do more than average work. I've never gone a full semester of not speaking in a class before...but that's what's happening. I've become that person in the back of the class taping pictures of eyes on my eyelids to appear interested. I still worry about assignments, tests, but only enough to make sure I don't scar my record with D's or F's. I'm worried about my 7-10 page paper for my Intro to Literary Theory class, because I don't really know what I'm doing. I don't have a solid grasp of my own thesis, or how I'm going to incorporate two different 'isms' (psychoanalysis is one so far). I've been in the class so long, it's hard for me to argue against the way of critiquing via the 'isms' of theory, so I'm doing what I've been programmed to do (and I wasn't programmed all that well). In the effort to balance views, I asked my husband to ask his SCAD teachers if I could do an interview with them on my topic--H.P. Lovecraft's "The Outsider." None of them believe in the worth of literary theory, and that's what I need. But now, I'm terrified. One of his professors actually said yes (probably because he's in such a good mood. He's just been given the option of turning one of his books into a movie--can you say PAYDAY?). I haven't felt this short of breath, this anxious and hand-wringingly stupefied since high school. I said I'd get him the interview questions and a summery of what I'm doing by Monday. That's one weekend to get my head on straight. Suddenly, this assignment means more to me than anything I've done since starting college. If I can prove to him that I can write, even a little bit, I might gain some kind of inside track that could help me if I get accepted to SCAD. Even if it doesn't, I just don't want to be a disappointment--my husband has awed them with his talent, I don't want his professors to think badly of me. Suddenly, my writing has meaning again. Call me shallow for caring what this prestigious author thinks, but it's kick-started a fear that will make me take this paper seriously. Fear has energized this lethargic writer, and I want to take advantage of it.
But when I got the hang of classes at Armstrong, I stopped caring if I didn't get all A's. Honestly, I just stopped caring about school. There is not one class right now in which I participate, in which I put forth all the effort necessary to do more than average work. I've never gone a full semester of not speaking in a class before...but that's what's happening. I've become that person in the back of the class taping pictures of eyes on my eyelids to appear interested. I still worry about assignments, tests, but only enough to make sure I don't scar my record with D's or F's. I'm worried about my 7-10 page paper for my Intro to Literary Theory class, because I don't really know what I'm doing. I don't have a solid grasp of my own thesis, or how I'm going to incorporate two different 'isms' (psychoanalysis is one so far). I've been in the class so long, it's hard for me to argue against the way of critiquing via the 'isms' of theory, so I'm doing what I've been programmed to do (and I wasn't programmed all that well). In the effort to balance views, I asked my husband to ask his SCAD teachers if I could do an interview with them on my topic--H.P. Lovecraft's "The Outsider." None of them believe in the worth of literary theory, and that's what I need. But now, I'm terrified. One of his professors actually said yes (probably because he's in such a good mood. He's just been given the option of turning one of his books into a movie--can you say PAYDAY?). I haven't felt this short of breath, this anxious and hand-wringingly stupefied since high school. I said I'd get him the interview questions and a summery of what I'm doing by Monday. That's one weekend to get my head on straight. Suddenly, this assignment means more to me than anything I've done since starting college. If I can prove to him that I can write, even a little bit, I might gain some kind of inside track that could help me if I get accepted to SCAD. Even if it doesn't, I just don't want to be a disappointment--my husband has awed them with his talent, I don't want his professors to think badly of me. Suddenly, my writing has meaning again. Call me shallow for caring what this prestigious author thinks, but it's kick-started a fear that will make me take this paper seriously. Fear has energized this lethargic writer, and I want to take advantage of it.
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